with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.

Use lipstick

to make people like you

One moment of silence.

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?

Use lipstick

to make people like you

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.

One moment of silence.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

I don’t give
I ask him
like the lord

who has taken away
the lord has taken away

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

Use lipstick

to make people like you

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

One moment of silence.

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

I don’t give
I ask him
like the lord

who has taken away
the lord has taken away

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

Use lipstick

to make people like you

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

Use lipstick

to make people like you

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.

You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

One moment of silence.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

Use lipstick

to make people like you

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

Sara Camhaji

visualize the voice of thought.
think the image of the voice.
provoke destiny. play.
from chance, from the sigh.
understand the force that links
the image to the name.
the name is an image.
the image is a verb.
play. nothing is chance.
destiny is a game.
everything is destiny.

This site is part of the project "DON´T TAKE PHOTOS OF THE LANDSCAPE; TAKE PORTRAITS WITH THE VIEW OF THE BACKGROUND IF YOU LIKE", whose creative object revolves around the phenomenon of memory and its conceptual visualization. Thus, Sara explores the different languages on which the mind reloads its truth and the way it constructs our inner world.
About
SARA CAMHAJI (Mexico City, 1986) is a writer, teacher, and mother. Her work is a natural response to her lived experience and the emotional dimensions she has inhabited. She has told and written stories for her entire life. Poetry—the axis of her exploration—has prompted her to develop new discursive forms in close contact with inner human reality; wrenching, they open themselves to embodiment and appropriation. She has a master’s in creative writing, two children, and two published works: Maleza (Alboroto Ediciones, 2022) and this one. A selection of her poems appeared in the UNAM’s Periódico de Poesía. She received a grant from Asylum Arts in 2017 and was awarded the Peleh Fund arts residency in Berkeley, California, for 2023. Narrated poetry or poetic narrative? Sara writes in the voice of an archive with a voice of its own, like a thinking time machine, or from the dark sincerity of she-who-didn’t-know-she-had-to-live.
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